


there was a strangeness in the horn

by Furorscribiendi



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Halloween, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Violence, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furorscribiendi/pseuds/Furorscribiendi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been a ‘before’. It was something he could barely recall now. It flitted through his mind like a vague image, hazy like thin clouds against the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there was a strangeness in the horn

there was a strangeness in the horn,  
a wildness in the cry  
a power of devilry forlorn  
exulting bloodily

The Hounds of Hell ~ John Masefield (1920)

~*~

There had been a ‘before’. It was something he could barely recall now. It flitted through his mind like a vague image, hazy like thin clouds against the moon. Green everywhere he looked, bright and vivid like a jewel. A brilliant blue sky held a moon that blinded and dazzled. Wide smiles and tight hugs let him know he was loved and cherished.

It had all changed that night. 

He couldn’t recall what he was doing, only that he was coming home late. It was far later than he really should have been out. The moon hung in the sky, full and low, gilding everything in silver. His breath had fogged, and he was tired, oh so tired. His bed was his siren call that night.

At first it didn’t register. It was the faint echo of a horn, that made his feet stop. Then came a dull thrum that seemed like it was mimicking his heart beat. But as it drew closer, he felt it in his feet, shaking through his bones and leaving him riveted to the spot. He'd gazed down the road, unsure of what he was waiting for.

It was faint flickers at first, wisps of silver moonlight and shadows that formed into shapes before his eyes. Pawing hooves and steeds with eyes a pale luminous white. And astride the lead was a dwarf with a mane like the night. But those eyes, those blue eyes pinned him in place and raked him bare.

“You dare to gaze on us?” the voice was harsh, imperious and impatient.

He should have averted his gaze, begged forgiveness and let them pass. But some part of him had snapped back quick as you please,

“And you would dare to trample down an innocent?”

There was a ripple of amusement as the dwarf glared at him before nudging the mount forward. He’d stood there, ramrod straight, wondering if his father had been right; that his Tookish tongue would get him into far worse trouble than out of it.

“I daresay, you could ask for no finer burglar,” an amused voice came now. An old man nudged his own mount forward. A keen gaze fixed down on him and then the words were pronounced, “Bilbo Baggins will do.”

Before he could even protest, he was swept up, placed on a mount and riding with others. He didn’t dare stop, for he knew to do so meant his certain death. So he rode through the night, and slumbered in the day, in barrow-downs where even wights didn’t dare to disturb them. 

Through the endless night, he learned. He learned their many names, all that they were good at. He learned that they hunted those who committed grievous wrongs and escaped justice. But it was Thorin, who led them all. It was Thorin, with his blue eyes and fierce heart that made Bilbo rise from the barrow-downs with the coming chill of the evenings and ride forth across the dark land.

So he learned how to wield a pike and ride his shadow mount. His pike became a part of his arm, his shadow mount like his legs and he sloughed off the skin of the person he once was. He neither hungered nor thirsted but he rode and fought, and spilled blood. He found joy in the night, the land racing beneath his shadow mount’s hooves, gilded in silver and the warmth of spilled blood across his cheeks. As he rode, he felt himself grow fiercer and wilder, a creature wholly unlike what could even be called a hobbit. 

He learned what wrongdoing he could easily find. He hunted cruelty and persecution of the innocent. He hunted those that whispered sweet words for their own foul, avaricious ends. He hunted those with malice in their hearts that drove words like spears into the hearts of others, intentional and far too effective on some. All these words, twisted so, called to him like a clarion horn.

The night that first happened, he couldn’t precisely say. But he remembered they were riding through a town of Men. The man had been out, and like a hateful whisper, all the words he had said, the careful calculated thoughts and planning behind it and the deaths he had racked up was plain as day, his soul black with it. There was no hesitating when his pike plunged down into the terrified body.

When Thorin had come riding up to him, a question in his eyes, Bilbo had merely said,

“His heart was heavy with stolen lives.”

There was a gleam of approval in those eyes and there was a sharp clench around his heart that told Bilbo that perhaps not everything he was had been sloughed off. 

As the years passed and they rode through the night, Bilbo found he couldn’t recall anything before being swept up into this company. There was the thrill of the hunt, the camaraderie of working together on bigger prey and the sheer exultation of riding through the night. But they were passing through a land one night, that stirred these vague recollections. There had been a woman on the road, grey in her hair and grief settled in her heart like a familiar friend. She stood, petrified before them before she spoke a word, voice tremulous in the night air. 

“Bilbo?”

He had nudged his mount forward. That voice was familiar. There were wide smiles that came with it… and other things. He paused for a moment, watching her and the hope that shone in her eyes. Then he leveled his pike, pointing behind her. 

“Home is ahead. Go and do not look back; only death is behind.”

A pained sob tore itself from her throat and then her feet were carrying her away as fast as she could go. When Bilbo looked back at Thorin, those blue eyes were fixed on him. They were intent and burning in the pale moonlight and Bilbo felt something crawl down his spine and settle in his belly. It sat there, a shard of anticipation until they returned to the barrow-downs.

Their shadow mounts dissipated with the coming of dawn and Thorin lingered outside as they others drifted in.

“You stayed with me.”

That shard twisted in his belly but still, Bilbo spoke. “I don’t remember anything else before this. It’s a forgotten dream. I ride with you now.”

Thorin stepped forward and Bilbo reached forward to touch him. He could feel the solid muscle beneath his callused hand, chill from the cold night and damp with the dew before daybreak. He could feel the slow, steady beat of Thorin’s heart, a match to his own.

“Ride with me,” Thorin took Bilbo’s hand in his. “Until the Remaking of the World.”

Bilbo looked up, seeing the edges of Thorin’s body start to go translucent with the approaching dawn. “Idiot. It was always you.”

A smile came to Thorin’s lips and he kissed Bilbo, hard and fierce. Bilbo clung to him and kissed him back, feeling the burning warmth of daybreak start to unravel them. When they went into the barrow, it was to lie down and slumber. 

But when twilight came, he could feel the pull of the night, could feel the moon begin rising in the sky. With Thorin beside him, the exultation of the hunt was twice as fierce. They stepped outside, their shadow mounts, gusting clouds of breath as they pawed the ground, eager to be off. 

Bilbo mounted. And Bilbo rode.

________________________________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to take a crack at writing a short piece for Halloween. Still not too sure what to make of it. I think I'm more perplexed because it's actually short.


End file.
